“Wait, I think I know her,” one of the other meatheads says.
My eyes flick in his direction. Have I ever seen him before? Mind racing, I try to process the possibility. His leathery face does look familiar, but I can’t place him.
“Yeah!” he exclaims, then leans into the guy holding Aydan and whispers something in his ear.
The leader’s eyes go wide. “Is that right?”
A knowing expression registers on Aydan’s face. He’s heard whatever the man said. “Marci run!” he screams and renews his struggle to get free. “Run,” he growls when he realizes I’m not going anywhere.
What does he think? That I’m going to abandon him—not when there are four perfectly killable Eklyptors in front me—one of which I’m growing more and more certain I’ve seen somewhere, if I could only remember …
“We should bring them in, then.” The leader licks his lips as if he just found a captain’s booty. A satisfied smile twists his big mouth for an instant, then it’s gone.
“Stanton, Jack. Get her!” he orders.
Stanton, the meathead who recognized me, and one of the others move forward on bent legs, ready to pounce. I take a step back, aim the gun from one to the other. I open my mouth to threaten them again, but what is the point?
So instead, I brace myself and pull the trigger. The shot echoes down the empty street. The recoil hits me like a mule and I lose my focus for a moment. Disoriented, I blink and look for my next target, except my first one’s still upright, wincing a bit, but certainly not out of commission as he should be.
“That wasn’t nice,” Stanton says.
A hole in his trench coat marks the spot where my bullet hit him. Wrinkling his bulbous nose, he presses a huge hand to his shoulder and rubs. Something about the deep grooves on his face triggers my memory, and I remember where I’ve seen him before. It was at Elliot Whitehouse’s party, in that room while Xave knelt on the floor, facing scrutiny after I freaked and gave us away.
The burning hatred in my gut flares, igniting every fiber, every atom in my body. I prepare to shoot again, but, this time, Stanton and Jack charge, the former running in front of the Jetta, the latter behind it. They move fast. I aim right, shoot. Stanton ducks just in time. The bullet misses. The guy to my left rounds the back of the car. I move backward trying to get a better angle. I shoot again—this time in the other direction. The bullet strikes Jack’s thigh. It barely slows him down, even as he limps. I shoot two more times, hit him once, but he’s still coming, head down, charging, growling like a beast.
Under the pressure and panic something clicks inside of me, sending my instincts into warp speed. Suddenly, I’m part of Aydan’s car. A door with metal parts and a latch. I fling myself open. Jack’s face disfigures in surprise, eyebrows up, mouth a shocked “O”. He’s going too fast to stop and slams against the door. He hits the ground with a heavy thud. He’s a felled tree, a massive waste of space.
I whirl to shoot at Stanton, gun tracing a semicircle around me, but it’s too late. He’s on me, grabs my wrist and twists it. In a blur, he sidesteps, gets behind me and pushes me stomach first onto the hood of the Jetta. I scream as he bends my wrist to the breaking point. My fingers go numb. The gun drops to the ground. The world undulates before my eyes.
“You little bitch,” Stanton says, a hand on the back of my neck, bending me over, forcing my face down until it hits the still-warm hood.
“Let her go, you bastard,” Aydan yells.
I strain to look in his direction. He kicks and squirms from side to side, teeth bare, hands trying to yank the arm that has him in a headlock. His face looks red, disfigured with the worst kind of anger and impotence I’ve ever seen. A vein pops up on his temple as his captor applies more pressure to the headlock, determined to strangle him.
I want to tell him to stop, to give up, or he’ll end up dead, but going down without a fight isn’t an option. Not really. So I writhe, kick harder and try to harness my pain to jump-start my skill, but my head’s swimming. The pressure around my neck is cutting blood flow to my brain and I can hardly breathe.
“Stop or I’ll truly bash your head in.” Stanton leans his weight into me, increasing the pressure on my neck, compressing my cheekbone into the hood until it dents inwardly. Pain radiates through my skull, then it stops as he lifts me and whispers in my ear. “No use in fighting. You’re coming with me. Whitehouse will be pleased.” And with that, he slams my head against the car so hard that white sparks flash in front of my eyes, practically blinding me.
My body wilts, knees folding in on themselves. Eyes rolling toward the back of my head, I fight to stay awake. Stanton catches me, then my feet leave the floor and I’m tossed over his shoulder. The world rolls over. Up is down. My head swings. My arms dangle.
“MARCI, MARCI!” a hysterical voice screaming my name.
I blink at the blur the world has become. There are flashes, patches of darkness, wavering surfaces. I blink again, reaching for the slippery thread of my consciousness. I grab hold of it, take a deep breath to secure my grip. Aydan’s still struggling, lost in a mad rage that will be his undoing.
“I’ll bring her in,” Stanton announces.
“NO.” Aydan cries out, then reaches backward, slapping his hands over his attacker’s ears. “NO,” he yells again.
Suddenly, sparks fly out of his mouth, and I think I’m losing it, slipping out of awareness and into dreams. A blue-white flash flickers on his chest, then explodes outward, crackling down his legs and up his arms. An electric hum fills the air. Stanton swears, fear riding his voice. A pang of nausea rocks my stomach. My head pounds and I can’t understand what is happening.
Then there’s a blinding flash, and I think it’s coming from Aydan’s hands, but it can’t be. His attacker’s head lights up like an electric bulb. The man’s hair stands on end. He jerks and jerks, the whites of his eyes flashing in a Christmas tree display.
Aydan’s hands glow brighter and brighter. Veins of energy run from his chest up his arms and into his fingers, white rivers flowing against gravity, driving into the Eklyptor’s head an unrelenting electroshock.
My head pounds. I vomit and my sick runs down Stanton’s pants. The thread of my consciousness slips from my grasp. The world bounces up and down as I move away from Aydan. He’s fighting the other Eklyptors, shooting electricity in all directions, screaming my name. I reach a hand out, but he’s getting smaller. And he glows and glows and it’s beautiful. Light everywhere, running over the blacktop, surging, oscillating, sizzling through the air.
The world rolls over again. Up is up as it should be. I’m thrown to the ground like a disposable thing. No, not the ground. It’s too soft to be the ground. My eyes roll from side to side, fighting the heaviness, the sickness. Something slams shut. A door? I’m … I’m in a car.
“Aydan,” I croak.
My head swims and my eyes blur like I’m in a pool, sinking, drowning, going under … under … under …
Chapter 23
He’s wearing one of his scarfs—the ones he prefers, in the color of cat’s puke—and a tailored, dark suit. His golden eyes drill mine, unblinking, unnatural.
Fake.
Barbie and Ken.
He made them into that shade. No one is born with eyes like that.
I’m in an office, presided by Elliot Whitehouse behind an executive desk. He sits on a black leather chair with a back taller than his head.
My throat bobs up and down. There’s an incessant pounding between my temples brought on by the loud buzzing of his presence. I wish the droning to stop. It doesn’t relent one bit. Nausea hits me in waves, undoing me from the inside. The word “concussion” has a real meaning for me now. I know my Symbiot healing powers are at work, but they don’t work fast enough.
I eye a heavy-looking statue that rests off to the side on a pedestal and imagine it ramming against Elliot Whitehouse’s temple. It doesn’t move. I imagine squeezing his heart like an overripe peach. Nothin
g.
Instead, daggers of pain lance from the top of my forehead to the back of my neck, skewering my brain through and through. I hate him with all that I am, so why isn’t that enough? If I could only handle meditation … if I wasn’t so weak … if my brain didn’t feel ready to split in two … if … if … if …
Freezing air blows from the air conditioning vents. I shiver, wish for a blanket, a bed, a pillow, but all I’ve got is a hard chair and a nasty old man who’s staring at me with terrible eyes. He stands, comes to pace in front of the desk. His expensive patent shoes creak with every step. He looks warm in his suit and scarf or cravat—whatever the hell it’s called. And I want to pull that silky mess off his neck and stuff it deep, deep inside his throat.
My hands twitch behind the chair. The zip tie cuts into my skin.
Not for the first time, I wonder what makes this man a leader to these monsters. He’s no match to the beasts I’ve seen. They could spike his old ass in seconds. There must be a reason.
“Ms. Milan,” Elliot says with a smirk. “What a pleasure to see you again. How do you do?” He still remembers the fake last name I gave him at his twisted party.
“Just swell,” I say, my upper lip twitching.
“So glad. And how about our mutual friend, our dear James? How does he fare during these trying times?”
I take a deep breath. My nostrils flare and feel too narrow to inhale the air my lungs demand. Shadows swim around the edges of my vision, fueled by my anger and impotence. They try to disseminate my thoughts, hoping to snuff me.
Puke cravat … inside his throat.
Bring fluorescent lights … Electricity.
Aydan … Bright, bright hands.
God, I hope he got away.
I swallow and answer, “I don’t know. James isn’t my friend.”
Elliot pinches the edge of his sleeve and pulls on it, adjusting it. A golden cufflink sparkles with small diamonds. “Is that so? Did you have a falling out?”
“Yeah, you could call it that.” The jerk is high if he thinks I’ll tell him anything about James or IgNiTe.
“Was that before or after you destroyed my cryo lab?” he asks in a calm, cold tone.
I frown, try to look surprised. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He leans against his desk and crosses his arms. His pupils are black horizontal slits surrounded by flecks of gold. “Let’s agree not to insult each other’s intelligence, Ms. Milan. Shall we? I know you were there. You and James and Veronica and others I don’t know.”
It takes me a moment to remember that Veronica is Blare’s fake name, and another to puzzle over how he could have managed to see us. Aydan disabled the cameras. The only ones there were the guards and they all died.
“I can see you’re baffled,” he says. “Your team had an easy back door into the security system, what with James being the owner of Zero Breach. I was a fool to use his company to secure my labs, but he played a clever game. I’ll grant him that. He had me fooled for years, but it seems he got desperate in the end, even recruiting careless kids for his IgNiTe rebel group.” He laughs dryly. “After the night you came to my house, I began to suspect something wasn’t right. He always refused to join my ranks. I thought he was organizing his own faction, and I was okay with that. Our kind has pulled toward the same goal for a long time. We’ve trusted each other, like lions hunting together, knowing that in the end we would share the spoils of the chase.
“But the closer we got to The Takeover, the more our factions solidified and James had to choose a side. It didn’t make sense for him to refuse me, not when I’m the leader of the most powerful faction. He denied being with Hailstone, tried to make me believe there was some other group he was part of, but I knew better.
“That’s when I decided it was time to end our business agreement. We even began transitioning our security measures, but it wasn’t soon enough. Such a loss. But never mind that. The fact remains … there were other cameras and they weren’t connected to the main system, which means I saw you there. I know you are partly responsible for the senseless destruction. I know you’re part of IgNiTe,” he says with clenched teeth.
Elliot comes away from the desk and leans forward to look me in the eye. I press my back against the chair. The scent of his cologne is woody and expensive. He licks his lips.
“But you see,” he says, “there’s so much more I don’t understand. So much more that boggles my mind and keeps me up at night as I try to make sense of things.”
In spite of the cold, a drop of sweat slides down my breastbone. A nervous thrill runs down my legs. He’s too close. My head hums like a piano string, unrelenting and louder than with anyone else. Elliot lifts a hand. I flinch, expecting a slap but, instead, he presses an index finger to my temple and pushes it in, making my head bend to the side, digging his manicured fingernail into my skin.
“But things make no sense at all,” he says in a whisper, his neutral breath blowing over my nose. “You’re one of us. James is one of us. Can’t hide that. Can’t fake it. It’s in here.” He drives his finger with more force until my neck feels like it’s about to snap and his finger is about to break through and puncture my brain.
I do my best to repress a groan, determined not to give him the satisfaction.
“So why?” he asks raising his voice and finally pulling away from me. “Why would you betray your own kind? What could humans have offered you? And what witless hope do you harbor that makes you think you have a chance against us, a chance to ever enjoy what they have promised you? Tell me. Make me understand.”
His face has become a mask of anger and frustration. His British cool and superiority are gone, utterly erased by his dogged desire to understand, to see the pieces of the puzzle clearly. Here is someone who is used to knowing everything, used to being in absolute control. Not seeing how we fit in his scheme must be driving him crazy.
A strange satisfaction washes over me. He doesn’t know about Symbiots. He thinks we’re full-fledged Eklyptors, traitors to the cause, to The Takeover. And for that to be possible, humans must have offered us something, must have bribed us, somehow. And that’s the rub—the how—because what could weak humans possibly offer Eklyptors? It would be like cats banding with mice against a mighty pride of savannah lions.
“SO?” In a raised tone, he demands the explanations that will be like sleeping pills to his unrestful nights.
“I don’t know,” I say, a smile stretching the corners of my mouth, “I sort of like the idea of IgNiTe keeping you up at night, so … you can stuff your questions up your ass, you bloody bastard.”
Calmly, too calmly, Elliot takes a step forward, then slaps me across the face. My head snaps to the side. A string of saliva flies out of my mouth and lands on the carpet. The room dissolves into wavering shapes. The headache I’d managed to ignore flashes like a sun flare. My stomach roils and I wish I could vomit all over Elliot’s shoes, but I’m hollow. I don’t even remember the last time I ate. I wipe my chin across my shoulder, leave a red stain behind.
He procures a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes his hand. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, my dear girl. No matter which, you will tell me what I need to know. You have five minutes to make up your mind.”
“Why wait? I can tell you right now.”
I work up an answer in my dry mouth. It takes a few seconds, but when it’s formed, I spit it out onto his legs. Elliot jumps back, horrified. A trail of pinkish saliva dribbles down his tailored pants, right along one perfect crease. The expression on his face is priceless.
“Your crassness is so perfectly American,” he sneers.
“Oh, get over yourself!”
“Very well. I shall do just that.” He walks around his stately desk and picks up the phone. “Stanton, get things ready down below. Our guest needs a break from me.”
His golden eyes sparkle and—though his mouth never reflects it—I know that, on the inside, he’s
smiling with immense satisfaction.
“I think it’s time for her to get acquainted with dear Doctor Sting.” He holds the last syllable with relish, almost making the word vibrate. “Ms. Milan needs someone more to her … level, someone rough around the edges. Please come fetch her, and when she’s finally ready to talk, do let me know.”
Elliot sets the receiver down, satisfaction dripping off him like drool off a hungry dog. He adjusts his right cuff again and says, “Ask and you shall receive.”
My skin crawls with a million scuttling insects. I lower my head, averting my gaze, trying to brace myself for what’s to come. I’d rather die than tell him anything.
I hope I can.
Chapter 24
Pain.
Pain.
Pain.
It flares and flares, coloring everything red, demanding my attention, which I’m desperately trying to keep elsewhere.
Beep, beep.
The Road Runner is fast.
Fast and evil.
Evil.
Evil.
Evil.
More comes.
Damn you, pain. I knew you. At least I thought I did. I’ve hurt before. Hurt a lot. But I really didn’t know. Really didn’t.
Xave. Where are you?
Hazel. Beautiful hazel.
God, I was so wrong. I didn’t know. Not at all.
A scream rips through my throat, slashing my vocal chords, betraying the strength I thought I had. But I have none.
None none none.
No one. One.
Someone, please.
“Ahhhhhh …”
Meat.
Roasted meat.
I hold my breath. That smell is my leather pants and me combined. It’s my thigh, burning, sizzling like a young pig skewered through and through.
“Let’s try this again,” he or she says in a high-pitched voice. I have no idea if this thing hovering over me is male or female, all I know is that it’s a thing, a thing that stings and stings and stings.
The creature, appropriately named Doctor Sting, is holding up another knife, large and with a wide blade. Its tip is bright orange like the tip of the first one. “This one is also nice and hot. Right off the pit. Where should it go?” He—I decide it’s a he, because of the Adam’s apple—asks, as if trying to figure out where to put a freakin’ floral arrangement.
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